


and love is not a victory march

by mysterious_minds



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, even though i know i struggle with it, i just heard this song again for the first time in awhile and i was like let's write angst!!!, oh mentions of past self harm!! do not read if that triggers you!!, oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterious_minds/pseuds/mysterious_minds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and love is not a victory march

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "hallelujah" by jeff buckley, obviously.

“I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch

And love is not a victory march,

It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah…”

\- “Hallelujah”, Jeff Buckley

\--

Harry is tired.

Harry is tired in the most bone-deep kind of way; the way that seeps deep into your skin and organs and holds tight and doesn’t let go. It curls around the base of your spine and squeezes the breath out of you and somehow, still, you cannot sleep.

He turns over in bed. Louis is deep in sleep, with a small frown on his delicate features. The wrinkles on his forehead are deep and worrying, and Harry wants to soothe them out with his thumb. Louis is exhausted as well, but his is an exhaustion that allows sleep. They cannot all be so lucky.

He turns again. His side of the bed faces the window, and he can see the people still bustling around at this hour of the night. Is it still night? He tilts his head to check the bedside clock. 2:45 am. He supposes it’s somewhere in between, a compromise from the cold moon and the unforgiving sun.

He stares at the ceiling. He remembers when they first moved into this flat; they had had so much fun unpacking, throwing bubble wrap and packing peanuts at each other and drinking cold tea and sticking glow-in-the-dark stars to their ceilings.

The false stars can comfort him as much as the real ones in the sky.

It was a sort-of ritual, to him: whenever Louis left on a _date_ with _her_ , he’d crawl into their bed with a mug of tea and stare at the ceiling of stars and remember that Louis was his boy and nobody else’s, and that it didn’t matter what other people said.

He cannot feel the same kind of warmth as he used to.

He shifts in bed a few more times, before deciding sleep is impossible and getting up. His grabs his quilt (their quilt) from the bed, wraps it around his shoulders, and spares one more glance at Louis’ sleeping form, lingering on the way his tiny body takes up so little space. He leans over, and kisses Louis’ forehead gently, trying to hold in his sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, before stepping out of their room, into the hallway, and out the front door.

\--

Harry is found shivering and wet on a park bench in South London in the morning. He is taken to a hospital (he’s apparently gotten a bit too cold, whatever), where they are forced to call Louis, who comes to see him, screams at him a bit, kisses him a bit more, and then takes him home.

When they arrive home, he notices the signs of frantic worrying and searching and fear. He notices, but he does not ask. He does not ask when he sees the broken mug in the sink and the drops of blood next to it. He does not ask when he sees Louis’ phone left in haste next to the sink. He does not ask when he sees on their calendar that another “date” is scheduled for today. He doesn’t. He can’t.

All he can do is sit on the couch and cry with his head in his hands.

\--

Louis doesn’t understand what it’s like to have to share the person you love. But that’s okay, because Harry understands enough for the both of them.

\--

It’s 2:45 am, and Harry will do anything to not feel alone.

\--

Harry knows he shouldn’t, but he finds himself staring at the blades on the rim of the bathtub again. He hasn’t in years, and he’s not going to anytime soon (that road was too hard to cross to go back on), but it’s there and it’s staring him in the face.

He sighs and presses his cheek down gently onto the cool, white porcelain. He allows one tear to slip down his cheek and drop onto the bathtub before inhaling deeply and rising. He doesn’t want Louis to find him here when he gets home--

“Hazza?”

\--too late.

Harry turns around and sees Louis’ face furrowed, his perfect mouth set into worried lines, before it goes curiously blank.

“Show me your wrist,” he says quietly.

“Louis—“

“Just do as I ask.” His voice cracks. “Please.”

Harry sighs and presents his (unmarked) wrists. Louis softly brushes over each of his scars with his thumb, tracing his veins, before bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to every scar. Harry stands perfectly still, holding in his breath and tears. Louis drops his arm and pulls Harry into his chest.

“Do you promise you’ll come to me next time?” he murmurs. Harry nods against the top of Louis’ head before placing a kiss there.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

(And in that moment, Harry doesn’t doubt him.)

\--

There are days when Harry regrets everything he’s put into their relationship; all the songs and tears and screams and worries and hopes and fears and loves.

But then he looks over to see Louis wiggling his hips, making tea, singing along to the radio at the top of his lungs, and remember why he’s in this for the long run.

\--

_I’m too worthless for you to love me. I’m too worthless for you to love me. I’m too worthless for you to love me. I’m too—_

Harry? (A pause, breathing pretending to be sleeping.) Goodnight, baby, I love you.

_(His heart sings.)_

_\--_

Another morning and another “coffee date” for Louis and _her_.

“Louuu,” Harry whines from under the covers of the bed. “Come back to bed.”

Louis peeks out from the door to the bathroom, shaving cream covering his jaw. “Babe, you know I have to go, or they’ll drag us both in for questioning. Again.”

“But Louuu.” Harry’s pout intensifies. “I haven’t seen you all week, we’ve been so busy.”

Louis sighs. “That’s not fair; you know the pout gets me.” Harry’s pout turns into a radiating smile. “Okay, fine, yeah. I’ll stay. Just let me finish shaving.”

He returns to bed a few minutes later, and snuggles into Harry’s warm arms. He intertwines their legs and presses a gentle kiss onto the star on Harry’s bicep. “I’m actually pretty glad you convinced me to stay now.” He chuckles. “The fans are gonna go nuts. ‘Eleanor stood up! Is the Elounor ship sinking’?”

A smug smile finds it’s way on Louis’ face when Harry bursts into full-body cackles in a way he hasn’t in ages. His chuckles die down and he curls around Louis further, resembling a life-size kitten. He noses along Louis’ jaw, placing little kisses everywhere. “They’ll just have to deal.”

\--

It’s totally Harry’s fault for leaving his writing journal around for Louis to snoop through. (It’s totally Louis’ fault too, but he’s definitely not going to admit that.) And he’s not regretting it in the slightest, not when he gets to read Harry’s beautiful prose and poetry again. He’s just casually flipping through when something catches his eye:

 

_“I love you with every_

_beat of your heart in_

_your fragile ribcage._

_I love you with every_

_breath you breathe_

_in your lungs._

_I love you with every_

_word that comes out_

_of your rose-pink mouth._

_I love you.”_

 

And suddenly he’s weeping so hard he’s caught by surprise. He can almost feel the love pouring out of Harry’s pen into the paper. It’s a bit overwhelming, if he’s honest.

“Lou? Baby, you’re crying. What’s wrong?” Harry’s home, then. “Is that my journal?” He bends down next to Louis and pulls the journal out of his lap gently. “Which one was it?” Louis gestures vaguely towards it. “Ah, ok. I see.” He pulls Louis into his lap, cradling him in his arms. “Cry it out, baby.”

And Louis does, until he’s run himself dry. He scrubs a hand over his face, leaving it there for a moment before abruptly getting up, startling Harry. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. It’s a surprise.”

And he runs out of the room, out of the hallway, out of the house.

\--

He arrives home five hours later to a furious Harry. “Where have you been? You started crying over my not-that-great poetry and just ran? What was I supposed to think?” Harry yells the moment he walks in the door, obvious tear-tracks on his red face.

“Sweetheart, it’s—“

“You scared me so much, do not ever do that ever _again_ , do you understand me Tomlinson?”

“Harry.” Louis says his name with such sincerity that Harry stops his frantic pacing and turns to face Louis. “Do you remember when we went to the doctor a few weeks ago?”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, so? Just a regular checkup. Cardiogram, weight, stuff like that.”

“Yeah, um…”

Panic dawns on Harry’s face. “Oh god, you’re not—you’re not sick, are you?”

Louis’ quick to correct him. “God no, I’m fine, Harry. We’re both perfectly fine, I promise.” He pauses and shuffles on his feet. “But I sorta took a quick look at your cardiogram, and um…it’s just better if I show you, here…” He comes closer to Harry and begins to unwrap the bandages around his wrist that Harry is mentally kicking himself for not noticing earlier.

Harry gasps once they're off. Circling his right wrist, just thin enough to fit under his ropes, is a thin, black line with intermittent peaks.

“It’s your heartbeat,” Louis murmurs. “’Cause the poem said, ‘I love you with every beat of your heart’, and, you know. Thought I’d tell you I return the sentiment.” He clears his throat. “And obviously it’s on my left wrist because that’s the arm we agreed on for my tats—“

He’s cut off by Harry placing his mouth firmly over Louis’, his tears falling hot and fast. “God I love you,” he whispers, pulling back and resting his forehead against Louis’. 

“I love you too. I just—I just wanted you to always remember that.”

(Harry doesn’t doubt him.)

\--

It's 2:45 am, and Harry is sleeping.

\-- 

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> this was weird im sorry also the poem louis reads is mine but for all intensive purposes harry wrote it ok
> 
> follow me on tumblr at grizzlybairparty thanks


End file.
